Oh No You Didn't...

"Mumma!  Mumma!"  I crack open my eyes and attempt to focus (which is extremely difficult since I have 20/475 vision).  I cast my legs out from under the wonderful cocoon of warmth, trying to propel myself in the direction of the fire, catastrophe or impending disaster – whatever is going on in Emmeline’s room to make her scream in such a wretched way.  I stumble down the hallway (still legally blind, as in my dazed state I neglected to grab the spectacles), cursing silently as I step on a block.  “Just. Don’t. Wake. Your. Sister!!!!!!!” I hiss between clenched teeth.   I finally arrive, just in time to save Emmeline from her prison.  She is so grateful that she hugs me for dear life and offers up a binky for my efforts.  I pass on the tribute – as I have given up binkies for Lent.  We walk back to my room, trying to sneak in a few more minutes of tranquility before the calamities of the morning beckon.  Emmeline is babbling on about “dweams” of ponies and tigers – about nine decibels louder than necessary.  Perhaps she is trying to relay her story to the neighbors without having to repeat herself?   “Shhhh, Honey!” I whisper, trying to get her to diminish the cacophony.
 

I plunk her into the middle of my oasis, and crawl in for a few more blissful minutes.  She snuggles in, cuddling close and hugging me so tightly.  These are some of my absolute favorite moments in the entire world.  They are so sweet, so precious, and so short-lived – they are what make being a mom all worth it.  My husband tries to say good morning to us, which is cataclysmic.  Shouts of “NO!  MY MOMMY!” echo down the hallway.  Oh. No.  She’s done it.  The calm before the storm is now over.  Batten down the hatches everyone. 

Lena emerges, very disheveled. She has channeled Ke$ha during the middle of the night.  Her hair; a nest of asps. She apparently slept in a pile of glitter.  She somehow changed out of her feety-pajamas and into some nightgown that she outgrew two years ago – not even sure where she found it.  Perhaps she was sleep-foraging in the garage?  In a very subdued voice she answers the threat with her own retaliation: “No.  She’s my mommy.” 

Well, that just about pushes Emmeline over the edge.  The gloves are off.  The gauntlet has been thrown.  Full blown argument emerges as the bed morphs into a king sized ring.  My husband and I try to referee – but it’s really hard to see beneath the covers and with all the appendages flying.   Shouts of “Not yours, mine!” bounce off the walls.  Threats of expulsion from the bed, from the family, from Earth are expounded. At one point, someone tries to bite my ear off.    Finally, after several bells and some smelling salts, both collapse in a sweaty, heavy-breathing heap on top of the comforter. 

The joke's on them: It turns out I am both of their mothers.  And I want them to get dressed. 

This is the anti-venom that should have been pulled from the arsenal before Fight Club broke out.  Rule #1 about Fight Club is it doesn't exist.  Rule #2 about Fight Club is make everything a nightmare for Mommy when she wants us to get ready for the day.  The two scatter like mercury off the bed and run off into the distance shouting "I'm wearing a gymnastics leotard and my cowboy boots to school today and you can't stop me because you get what you get and you don't get upset. Bahahahaha!"  "Yeah!  I wearin' stwipes! Yots of stwipes."   I guess the jokes on me.  I gave birth to kids who don't know how to dress without looking like they just crawled out of an institution for the criminally insane.